


Before a Silver Dawn

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Also there’s a spooky tree, Guilt, Horror, Javert is not equipped to deal with it, M/M, Possession, Valjean is very very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: The roots of the old tree spread out, surrounding the kneeling figure, who is as rough and angular as the lines of the bark. The lined hands and face are pale in the moonlight. From a certain angle, it is difficult to see where the tree ends and the man begins.Jean Valjean is not as he should be, and Javert missed all the signs.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31
Collections: Valvert Monster Remix





	Before a Silver Dawn

The days are growing colder and the nights are icy cold. Jean Valjean has not eaten in too long. He speaks even more seldom than before. He has a way of looking at Javert without seeing him — he looks at everything without seeing, it seems. And he is not the only one. Jean Valjean is not as he should be, and Javert missed all the signs.

His first thought was that Valjean’s powers of deception must be as sharp as ever, but the truth is more humiliating: His own powers of observation have stagnated in the strange, still months since his injury. If he is honest with himself, as he must be since honesty is all that remains to him, he must admit that in all his watchful years, he has only ever seen glimpses of the man.

Even so, he is certain now that something has changed. Valjean was always quiet, but he dwelt among men. As recently as July, on the barricade and afterwards, he was alive with purpose, even when that purpose was grim. Whatever this emptied-out creature is that haunts the garden now, it is not entirely Jean Valjean.

Javert finds him, as usual, on the stone bench beside an oak tree. September is dwindling and golden brown leaves are dropping from the trees around them. Javert is clutching a blanket in two hands, trying to find the words to address a man — over ten years his senior — who will not attend to the needs of his own body.

“If you will not come inside,” says Javert, rigid with fury but determined not to issue a command, “will you at least make use of this?”

Jean Valjean glances at the blanket and then raises a hand in smiling, empty-eyed dismissal. Javert bares his teeth. Confusion does not suit him well, so he settles for anger instead. And does he not have cause to be angry with Valjean? It is neither kind nor just of Valjean to make a guard dog of him again, but he can still play the part if he must.

“Do not worry, Valjean. The blanket may be warm but it itches. A man can still suffer without freezing himself to death.”

The blanket may itch, but it’s better quality than the ones at Toulon. Javert has not touched one in over a decade but the memory is still tight enough to choke him. He still feels half-smothered by that cloth; in the ordinary, brutish anger his mother wrapped around him until he was taken away. It has shrouded generations of prisoners and his guards alike. 

“Go inside, Javert.” Valjean’s tone is placid but hollow. He turns his attention back to the old tree. “I will be with you presently if you need me.”

“I do not need you,” Javert snaps. He doesn’t think to regret it until the words are out of his mouth and Valjean’s expression has hardened in acknowledgement. “This is not settled. If you wish to die, you will have to outmaneuver me.”

He is pushing too close to the truth. But he had not wanted to be dredged up and wrung out and Valjean ignored his wishes. He did not want to be pulled upright and bathed and marched about the garden like a toy soldier until his body was repaired and his mind was trailing halfway behind. He would have chosen oblivion a thousand times, and yet here he is. So why should Valjean have any say in the matter now that the tables are turned?

But his words have landed on empty ears. Valjean’s eyes are still on the tree. Javert harrumphs. He drapes the blanket over Valjean’s knees, avoiding Valjean’s eyes, and he returns to the house, sullenly crushing the decaying leaves beneath his boots.

* * *

Javert wakes, startled, at the sound of a door hinge creaking in the night. For a moment he is lost. The little bare room could almost be his own apartment, except that small details are askew. The window is positioned higher on the wrong wall. He would not have permitted so many candles, nor would he allow them to burn all the way down. And besides, Javert’s apartment looks out onto the street, not a garden. There are no trees outside to rattle their branches against his window. And, since Valjean’s daughter moved away, there is only one other occupied room on this floor.

He stands, groggy. He has never been a heavy sleeper before. For most of his life there have been threats or duty to pull him awake. But now that there is nothing in his life — no work, no expectations, only the chilly concern of the man who has yoked his existence to Javert’s — it is as though his body is greedy for rest. He is like a different man; worse than an idler because he finds no pleasure in his idleness. He imagines himself consumed by some great soporific wave, each day waking breathless and smothered by the bright new world.

Still, he thinks as he dresses with haste, it is good to know that the old instincts are not entirely blunted. He still has some sense for these things, but it manifests differently. It is no longer the intoxicating scent of blood enticing him forwards. Instead it feels like dread that spurs him out of the bedroom and down the stairs, his boots echoing against the wooden floorboards. 

Jean Valjean’s ragged old coat is still hanging beside the door, and his finer one too — the one Javert has never seen him wear. It is no surprise. Javert passes through to the back of the house, hoping he might be mistaken. Perhaps he will find Valjean hunched over a stack of papers in the drawing room or picking at a crust of bread in the kitchen. It would still be a grave sign, but it would not be as terrifying as this. He does not have words or a shape for the thing he fears, it is a large absence in his mind.

Valjean is not in the drawing room. He is not in the kitchen. Javert presses grimly into the garden, following the treacherous, beckoning moonlight. Outside, more leaves have fallen. The worn-down path that leads into trees and bushes and vines is half invisible. 

There is a chill in the air and Javert shivers. He realises now that he has no idea where his coat is. Did Valjean dredge it up with him, or is it rotting at the bottom of the Seine? He has only been in the garden since his recovery, and he has not had to worry about his clothes. What does it matter if his hair is in disarray or he is in nothing but his shirtsleeves? Jean Valjean has seen him at his most helpless; a miserable, half-drowned thing. What kind of propriety can he hope to restore after that?

He cannot see the path, but he knows the way. Valjean has always drifted towards the bench and the old tree on their walks, never explaining their significance. A cloud passes over the moon as Javert presses through the darkness and he freezes, seized by the certainty that the garden is larger than it seems and the night is blacker. He is lost. He has wandered too far, caught between trees and bushes, frozen air washing over him. Valjean is safe in his bed. He will find Javert in the morning, lips tinged blue and all Valjean’s hard work undone. It will serve them both right. 

He looks back, but the unlit house is hard to make out through the foliage. Somewhere above him, a night bird lets out a creaking call, warding off invaders. If Javert had his hat, he would tip it in deference. The cloud shifts and there again is the moonlight. The world tilts, becomes a little more solid and a little less real.

As he is looking up, he hears another sound, this one only half of a human voice. Though Javert can barely make it out, he can detect the half-remembered tune. He presses on, following the broken notes, until he finds his way to the stone bench. There, on bended knee, white head lowered over the roots of the tree, is the man he has sought.

The song is an old one. Javert has never known whether it is a song meant for convicts or for children. Either way, he’s only ever heard it in one place. Somewhere over the span of decades, it has lost its melody and half of its words. The blanket lies crumpled on the bench, almost buried by fallen leaves. Javert stands transfixed by the sight. But when the body unbends itself, wrenching its head upwards with jerking, angular motions, Javert’s stomach lurches. No, his old instincts are not entirely lost. This is not Jean Valjean.

The body shifts and twists to face him, moving gracelessly and with agonising slowness. The roots of the old tree spread out, surrounding the kneeling figure, who is as rough and angular as the lines of the bark. The lined hands and face are pale in the moonlight. From a certain angle, it is difficult to see where the tree ends and the man begins.

“And what are you?” Javert’s voice feels rough with sleep. He is cold and furious.

The body moves, creaking as Valjean’s head tilts into the moonlight. Shadow pools below the brow leaving nothing but glinting darkness where Valjean’s eyes should be. He — it — looks as though it has wept Valjean’s sight away.

And yet, whatever this thing is, it recognises Javert at once.

“Most ungrateful,” croaks the thing that is not Jean Valjean. “Is that any way to speak to your benefactor?”

Javert is frozen in place. It is Valjean’s voice and yet, at the same time, it is not. What is this strange force that commands him now? This thing that lifts his head at such an unnatural angle and works his mouth as a puppeteer works a marionette?

“Go back to your bed,” it says.

“What is the matter with you?” Javert snaps. “What are you to address me so rudely?”

“Go back to your bed,” says Valjean again. “You used to be so fond of taking orders, Inspector Javert. Now be a good dog and go to sleep.”

Javert has always wondered how many of his crimes Valjean remembers — how much of a grudge Valjean bears. He wonders how well he is tolerated, truly, by the man who has kept him alive for so long. He had hoped he was not imagining the concern in Valjean’s quiet ministrations, but now he wonders if the fresh white roots of his heart, deprived of any alternative, simply buried themselves within the closest person he could find. Either way, it is better to know for certain that he is little more than another of Valjean’s duties.

The wind whips around them but Valjean does not tremble. When he shifts to study Javert, his limbs groan like aching boughs. 

“What are you?” Javert asks again.

“We are watered with sorrow and fed with grief. It is more easily obtained than bread and more reliable than love. He knows that well enough. He will make a fine gardener.”

“What is this nonsense,” Javert retorts, trying to summon his old tone of command. But that part of himself is dulled with neglect and his voice sounds distant. “If you will not speak sensibly, you needn’t speak at all.”

“We have nothing to say to you. Go back to bed.”

“Valjean, will you stop this? I insist that you come inside.”

“His work is finished,” says Valjean’s mouth. Its tone is placating now, like the numbing cold that washes over Javert. “The boy is alive and the girl will be happy. Even you will survive, for whatever you may be worth. He has done more than enough.” 

“Valjean,” Javert’s voice cracks like bark, disappears on the wind. 

He takes a step closer and Valjean’s body jerks. There is a sickening creak. And now the voice is sharper.

“What else is there for a man of his kind? You know that better than anyone. Why force him to suffer more? He came willingly. Let him be.”

It is not Jean Valjean’s voice, Javert insists to himself, and yet it is. Valjean’s face, contorted as it is by something, is still lined with a pain that Javert knows too well. He cannot understand it, cannot explain it, cannot even reason with it — how could he when he could not reason with himself? But he can protest. He steps closer. Takes hold of Valjean’s hands and does not let go when the body tries to jerk itself free.

“I will not have this,” he says, with some of his old fierceness. Valjean’s wrist is rough beneath his fingers, the old manacle scars as rigid as ancient bark. When he laughs, it is barely a laugh, hollow as oak.

“Inspector Javert, the man who lives and breathes for the law. The man who has never needed another person in his life. When did you become so selfish?”

He must be selfish, Javert thinks wildly, because he will not let go, no matter how sharp the words cut. He tightens his grip and this time Valjean does not move, but the tree itself shudders, sending a shower of papery brown leaves shivering down around them. Javert crouches and then kneels at Valjean’s side. In the moonlight, Valjean is cold as the midnight earth, older than the bare winter branches and thinner than the leaves disintegrating around them. But he does not push Javert away.

“I may well be selfish,” Javert murmurs. He reaches for the anger that serves him in times like this, but he cannot find it. “Certainly I have changed. I hope I have, at least.”

There is a leaf in Valjean’s hair, crisp and golden against the white curls. Javert reaches to pluck it out and Valjean raises his chin to gaze up at him. There is something in his eyes now, behind the sightless black.

“But I have come to believe—” Javert breaks off. The words are half formed on his tongue now. Too late to retreat from them. He flattens his palm against Valjean’s face taking care not to seize or restrain. “What if it is not selfish to require companionship?” Javert can hardly hear himself beneath the wind, but the words feel more like a plea than a demand. Very well then, he thinks, let him hear me plead. He has seen me at my most pitiful, what is a little lower? “What if we were not supposed to live without it?”

Valjean’s eyes fall closed and his shoulders shake. Behind him, the wind roars through the old tree, sending branches whipping and rattling. Javert presses his forehead to Valjean’s. More than anything he fears the heavy crack of a branch overhead, so he presses closer. If he cannot drag Valjean away, at least he can try and shield him from harm for as long as he can. Not long, surely. He can only suppose that the two of them will be lost here, frozen beneath dark wood on this ungrateful earth. It will not be a resignation this time, at least, but a resolution. If Valjean chooses the emptiness, Javert will have it too, and joyfully.

Javert’s breath is coming raggedly now, but he is not alone in that. Valjean’s hands tighten their grip, and if Javert was ever in command, he is not anymore. Instead of raising Valjean upwards and out of the murky depths, he is once again permitting himself to be dragged down. Valjean’s fingers curl around his shoulders like sharp-ended roots. His other hand grips Javert by the hip and anchors him to the ground. Javert will not let go, wherever this takes them. 

He tilts Valjean’s jaw with his hand, and finds Valjean’s mouth open now, panting shuddering breaths. He brushes his mouth against cold lips and Valjean’s grip tightens. The wind slices against his cheek; his knees are soaked and half-sunk in the soil. Valjean’s hands are deathly cold but his breath is warm. There is life in there yet, enough for one of them, at least. So Javert kisses him again, and this time Valjean returns it. His breath is barely a whisper, but it threads a hope through the darkness.

The lacerating wind shrieks. All around them is the sound of splintering, as though the world were breaking open and every locked-away terror unleashed. But Valjean is holding on tighter now, and his lips are moving clumsily, desperately, against Javert’s. Where Javert’s fingertip brushes his jaw, he feels the jump of a pulse. There is an answering desire rising up within him, a part of him that longs to grasp and uproot and seize Valjean, to bear him back to the house and ease him down into the warmth of his narrow bed. Instead he stills his hand, presses reverent lips to Valjean’s mouth, mouths wordless promises that disappear into the shriek of the wind.

“Javert,” Valjean breathes, and it is his own voice, thank God thank God, it is Jean Valjean. His fingers tighten around Javert’s shoulders.

Above them, there is a crack. Valjean’s expression shifts into one of alarm. In less than a moment he has half risen, grasping Javert by the wrist. He hauls the two of them away from the tree and Javert scrambles back with him, his eyes raised now to the silhouette of branches overhead. The tree thrashes, and as Valjean’s arms come around to hoist Javert further, the trunk shivers and breaks into two. Electricity crackles through the air.

The wind drops and Javert takes a sharp, shaky breath. He is flat on his back in the dirt, half covered by Jean Valjean, whose face is buried somewhere between his shoulder and his neck. His wrist is clutched in Valjean’s hand. His arm is tight about Valjean’s waist. They are entangled and gasping for air, their faces close enough to share each breath. 

Now, as the wind and the horrors drop away, Javert feels as though he has been set adrift. He tightens his grip on Jean Valjean’s hip, feels Valjean’s shaking breath tickling his jaw, just below his ear.

“You must forgive me,” Valjean is saying, his voice almost too low to make out. “Javert, whatever it was I said, it was not…” he falters. His free hand traces Javert’s shoulder, fingers hesitant, as though he is not convinced Javert is a whole person. “I would never have said those things willingly.”

Javert draws in a gulp of air and crawls up onto his knees. Valjean has chosen his words carefully, but Javert has always been more than capable of facing the truth. So be it. Jean Valjean’s eyes are his own again, but Javert sees more of him now. He is not a convict to be commanded or a saint to be obeyed. He is old and Javert is old, and both of them see more of one another than anyone ever has before.

“Forgive you!” he says, and Valjean flinches, but Javert presses forward. “Who am I to forgive you for speaking the truth?” He shivers, though it is no longer cold. The truth is not always easy to hear, but it is best acknowledged, he supposes. “Besides. You have always been kind to me, no matter the truth of things.”

Valjean’s gaze is lowered and it stirs something within Javert. He remembers the cool press of Valjean’s palm after the fever broke, the spreading warmth of Valjean’s low assurance that all would be well and all could be repaired. Who is there left to forgive Jean Valjean, he wonders, if that is what Valjean needs?

Valjean’s eyes are focused on something behind his shoulder, on the wreckage of the tree. The moon casts a pale light on him and Javert catches at his hands.

“Very well then,” he says. “If you wish to be forgiven, here is what you must do: Be truthful with me, even if you think the truth might hurt. Be as kind to yourself as you have been to me, because I am not well practiced in kindness.” And then, because he realises now that he truly does have cause to forgive Valjean, he softens his grip. His thumb touches the rough, vulnerable point of Valjean’s inner wrist and feels the reassurance of a heartbeat pounding under his hands. “And, if you can bear it, do not leave me. Please.”

Valjean’s breath catches and Javert pulls at his wrist, lifting Valjean’s hands and pressing his lips against them. They stand.

“I am not entirely myself, I believe,” Valjean says as they make their way back to the house. Javert’s hand is on his arm, steadying. His voice is trembling, his body shaken. Javert knows a little of that. It is true that Valjean will change, just as he has changed so many times before. But Javert has changed, and it has taught him that change might transform rather than destroy.

“This way,” he says, guiding Valjean into the warmth.

Valjean does not protest. He allows Javert to lead him up the stairs, their boots echoing against the white walls. And in the small, bare room that is still not quite Javert’s, he allows himself to be undressed. He lowers his eyes as Javert presses reverent lips to his collarbone, his unshaven jaw, his lips. 

Valjean’s cheek feels clean and soft against Javert’s lips, as though he has shed a heavy skin at long last. As Javert uncovers every part of Valjean’s body, old and worn as he knows it must be, he forgives it and thanks it and praises it with lips and tongue. And as the morning washes the walls with golden light, together they make of one another something new.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the valvert monster remix. I’m not convinced this spooky tree story fits the silver theme. But like Javert, I am a born follower, so here we are. Happy Januaryween!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Malice's Seed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266977) by [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel)




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